by Val
‘Yes, yes! Go on! Oh, that’s good!’ he barked.
‘You’re going to see what a real Frenchwoman is worth,’ I told him, turning my face to his.
‘Yes! Oh, yes!’ I could tell by the contortions on his face he had come.
A few moments later, I did too.
I jumped off the bed at once, and went to the bathroom to see what a mess he had made of my hair and make-up. Then I went back into the room to get dressed. My little pachyderm was lying in a lifeless heap. It wasn’t that amazing, I thought to myself. As soon as I was dressed, I searched for the cigarettes in my bag, and lit one. I stared down at him, wondering how on earth someone like that could have given me pleasure.
‘That was fantastic!’ Roberto eventually managed to dribble.
The few strands of hair on the sides of his head were completely soaked with sweat.
‘I hope we can do it again sometime.’
In reply, I smiled and left the room. No two ways about it, our bodies speak for themselves. And I use mine to communicate with people. Besides, today I did a good deed. My little pachyderm must have lost at least a couple of pounds, and I myself am that much closer to the finishing line of my personal marathon.
I Go Native
12th April 1997
WHEN I OPENED the door and saw him standing there in his black-and-white-check imitation Faconnable shirt, I wished I were a draughts piece so I could run up and down his body. He immediately made me think of a game with some rules that could be more easily broken than others.
Rafael was as beautiful as a god. He had long, thick black hair which he gathered in a ponytail, and while he spoke he was constantly pushing rebellious strands behind his ears. His skin was dark olive, with a sheen that half the forty-year-old women who spend their lives sunning themselves on beaches around the world would die for.
Rafa was not bothered about the colour of his skin. Nor was I. But I have to admit that his origins did fascinate me from the start. His teeth gleamed like ivory, and for a second I felt as if I was on safari and had met an African elephant.
After he had told me his charges for acting as my tour guide for a few hours a day, and for taking some photos of the most interesting sights in Peru, I invited him for a wild weekend where his physical safety would be in great danger. He knew that, but I think he was willing to take the risk. I did not really need a guide, but hired him anyway.
14th April 1997
I love the intensity of our encounters. Rafa makes me feel happy in a way he probably does not even suspect. He motivates and inspires me.
The first time we met, I wondered if his skin was salty or not. Later, I discovered it smelt of vanilla, like the pods used to add flavour in cooking.
When we made love this morning, he spoke to me in Spanish, not in Quechua. I think this shows a timidity he is careful to hide: by speaking in what is not his native tongue, he distances himself from the enormous urge he feels to have me; the sound of his words bounces off the walls of the room and attacks my body, which shrinks each time one of them enters my ears and tickles my Eustachian tubes, weakening my resolve. I can never say no to him. After we have made love, I am always stained in words, my mouth is filled with imaginary shreds of coca leaves the two of us have chewed together, and my hair shines like never before. So does his. During our love-making sessions, he always wears it loose, and as it touches my body it’s like a soft chamois leather.
I love how sensual his lips are, and while I am licking his big toe it excites me to watch how he reacts with pleasure, trying not to laugh, as his body wriggles on the spotless white bedsheets. I nibble at his heels, like a puppy playing with a slipper. The sound of the headboard against the wall must tell our next-door neighbour that we are indulging in reproductive activity most couples would be jealous of, but it’s not the wild noises of some animal possession like a Cro-Magnon man and his mate, but something much more subtle, which gives me goose bumps. I often find myself thinking of Roberto, my little fat friend.
Rafa often plays at covering my body in marmalade, because I have never liked it and we store the extra pots from breakfast in our minibar. First of all he licks me with his small, pointed tongue, then he puts it in my mouth. The warmth from his mouth contrasts with the cool marmalade. His skin is smoother than Italian marble, and this has been the first time I’ve had a completely hairless body at my mercy. I feel proud to have such a wonderful specimen in my bed.
Today, after all our foreplay and moments of delight, he took off his condom, which by now was full to bursting, and left it by the bedside. I suddenly remembered the mistake many men make when they leave their condoms in full view of anyone, but I forgave him this once. On the contrary, I smiled over at him for the gift of crystal-clear semen he was making me. I picked it up between two fingers and sniffed at the tiny bundle, hoping to find the typical smell of sea water and egg white, but the only odour I could detect was that of latex dusted with a substance called SK70, which, according to the publicity on the box, does wonders for sensitivity.
When I came out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a brand new electric blue towel, which unfortunately left little balls of material all over my body. As I stood to look at myself in the mirror, I observed with horror that several of them had even got into my most private parts. When he saw what had happened Rafa laughingly introduced his fingers into all my hidden corners, with all the assurance of a plastic surgeon changing my features completely. He picked off the bits of fluff as if he were taking out splinters. Today I felt like Fort Apache besieged by the Indians, whose chief was Sitting Bull.
‘You’re very beautiful, boss,’ he told me softly.
And you’re my very own totem pole, I thought.
18th April 1997
It was night-time, and Rafa was driving me to the most dangerous hills surrounding Lima. When I asked him to take me there, he stared at me and said, ‘OK, boss, but on condition you put up your hair and hide it, so they won’t see you are a foreigner. And I’ll take a gun just in case, and we’ll keep the doors locked. Don’t even think of getting out of the car. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ I replied, looking serious.
I don’t like wearing my hair up. I never liked having ponytails, plaits, or anything like that. I have a complex about my ears. At primary school they used to call me Jumbo, because they stuck out even from my beautiful long hair. God knows, children can be cruel. Fortunately, when I was ten my mother noticed and had my ears pinned back. I spent a whole summer on the Côte d’Azur wearing a scarf that covered my head completely. Everybody would ask my mother if I had a fractured skull or was suffering from cancer. In reply, she would cross her fingers to ward off the possibility I might have to endure one or other of those dreadful traumas. Anyway, I don’t think the surgeon was particularly good, because my ears still look like cauliflowers, and I’m still embarrassed by them.
The road to the hills – if it could be called that – was covered in earth and showed there was heavy traffic along it. Our car was being thrown around like a ship in a storm, but I did not feel in the least bit frightened. On the contrary, I love it when the adrenalin kicks in. Besides, it excites me to know I have an armed man sitting next to me.
In the distance we saw the feeble lights of some shacks that seemed to be clinging to the top of the hill.
‘Stop the car!’ I ordered Rafa.
‘What?’ he said, slowing down and turning his head in my direction.
‘Stop the car here!’ I almost shouted at him. In the darkness I could not see how astonished he must look, but I could imagine it.
‘If I stop now, I’ll never get the car moving again, boss.’ Rafa tried to be as firm as possible.
‘We’ll push it.’
My solution did not seem to convince him, and he paid me no attention. So I grabbed the handbrake and pulled it up sharply, without worrying about the consequences of what I was doing.
‘You’re crazy, boss, we could have an accident!’ Raf
a shouted at me. He pushed at my arm, preventing me from getting the brake fully on. The car came to a shuddering halt.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked me, almost angry at what I had dared to do.
‘I want you to make love to me right here.’
‘What?’ he said, his anger changing to laughter.
I could see he understood what I meant, but could not bring himself to believe I could be so crazy.
‘Make love to me here, in the middle of the road,’ I said, struggling to open the car door.
This was difficult because the car was on a slope, and it took me several attempts to actually get out. I leapt out as if I were somehow gravity-free, and stood in front of the headlights so that Rafa could see me all the better. Perhaps that would arouse his desire. The countryside had a rather hostile look, and to make things worse, there was complete silence. Not a sound. Not a bird singing anywhere. A few moments later, Rafa got out of the car as well, and came and stood behind me. He pushed me down against the car bonnet with one hand, and lifted my blouse. I could feel the tips of his fingers running up and down my back, drawing little figure-of-eight patterns. The sign of infinity. The language of bees. From time to time he moistened a finger with his tongue, and started to move further down my back. Impatient, he undid my jeans button, and they fell around my ankles. Then he used two hands to lift my buttocks to the height of his prick, which was erect in the darkness as if invoking the Almighty. At that very moment, images from a horror film I had seen at university flashed through my mind. It was called The Myth of Kzulu. It was the story of a monster with a huge member which raped all the virgins it came across. They all died impaled on this gigantic prick. We used to go and watch this kind of horror film before our exams, to relieve the pressure. Perhaps now deep down I was anxious, and that was why I wanted to provoke Rafa.
Rafa began thrusting away, and as I too began to groan, I could sense he was about to climax. I did not stop him. I liked the idea he couldn’t help himself. And he came. A few seconds later, I could feel myself coming too. I remembered how Cristian had become a shooting star, and thought of all the other men in my life, even those I had not met yet. I had never seen things so clearly. I let out a cry that they must have heard in all the silent shacks perched up on the top of the hill.
‘Take photos of me like this, with my jeans down.’
Rafa did not need asking twice. He used his powerful flash, and turned his third eye on me.
‘Smile,’ he said, coming up close.
I adopted different poses, happy to be a model for a night.
‘Let’s go!’ I told him when I had had enough.
We both got back into the car and, after revving the engine a few times, we managed to set off again. When we reached the tiny village on the top of the hill, we had a spectacular view of Lima. A swarm of kids surrounded the vehicle and ran after us. We came to a stop for a minute.
‘Take some photos of the city,’ I asked Rafa. ‘And of the kids, could you?’
‘Yes, boss. But you stay still, please! I don’t want any problems with these people. Can you see how they’re staring at us?’
More and more people were coming out of ramshackle wooden and cardboard bars, curious to discover who had strayed into this territory reserved especially for the poor, the have-nots.
I could see satellite dishes on some of the shacks.
‘How can they have TV dishes? I haven’t even got one at home in Spain!’ I felt completely bewildered.
‘The Government has supplied them with electricity and water. It may seen unbelievable, but it’s true. There are even buses that come up here. Private ones. So people can get up and down to the city for half a sol. A lot of the women sell fruit down in the city centre during the day, then come back up here at night.’ While he was explaining this, Rafa was taking pictures of the children all round us.
They were having a great time, grimacing and sticking out their tongues.
‘Take a photo, Rafa.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’
At that very moment, I realized the flies on my jeans were still undone. I was struggling to do them up when I felt several tremendous blows on the sides of the car. Looking up, I realized that the hostile-looking crowd were trying to tip the vehicle over.
‘Hold on tight, boss, we’re getting out of here,’ shouted Rafa.
He threw the camera onto my lap and slammed the car into first gear.
The crowd pulled back, and soon all we could see in our rear-view mirror was the dust of the road.
‘Did you manage to get some photos?’ I finally asked, as we were drawing near the hotel.
‘Yes, boss. But just so you know it, it was complete madness to go up there. It could have ended very badly.’
‘Yes, Rafa, you’re right.’
Not Nice
19th April 1997
IN SPITE OF the tremendous shock we got last night, today I was full of life and felt great . . . apart from stomach cramps. A call from the company I had to visit changed my schedule completely. The marketing manager was expecting me in Trujillo, a city some five hundred kilometres north of Lima. I had to take a plane to get there.
‘The manager will see you at two o’clock,’ his secretary told me.
I barely had time to get to the airport, catch the plane, and arrive in time for my appointment.
I wanted to take Rafa with me, but he was finding it hard to get up. I dug him in the ribs several times, and after a lengthy shower, we sped to the airport in a taxi. The taxi-driver looked scared, and must have thought I was mad when I told him I was in a real hurry. Time for him obviously meant something different.
‘I don’t care if there are other cars in front of us. Drive on the pavement if you have to. Don’t worry about the police. Everything is covered . . . so just get on with it!’
At the airport we had to join a long queue. I thought we’d never get there in time, but eventually we found a flight and I relaxed.
After we had taken off, a really pretty air stewardess came to offer us lunch, which neither Rafa nor I could stomach.
‘Do you mind if we take some photos in the plane?’ I asked Rafa.
‘Are you a photographer then?’ the stewardess wanted to know, as she passed by with her trolley to take away the food neither of us had touched.
‘Yes.’
She smiled at him shyly.
‘She fancies you,’ I whispered in Rafa’s ear.
‘How do you know?’
He seemed upset. It’s normal for Rafa to attract women. He is a very handsome guy, although he’s on the timid side.
‘Female intuition.’
‘Does it bother you?’
Why on earth should it have bothered me? I’m not exactly a jealous woman. On the contrary, I see it as a compliment if a woman is attracted to a man who is with me. And besides, how can I ask a man to be faithful to me when I sleep with anyone I want? I felt like telling him what had happened with Roberto the afternoon I arrived in Lima. But I had too much respect for him. I did not know how he would take it – I was afraid what his reaction might be. I can understand that not everyone is prepared to accept my philosophy of life.
‘Not at all! I’m not a jealous woman, you know that,’ was all I said to him.
After almost an hour’s flight, we arrived in Trujillo. Rafa and the stewardess exchanged phone numbers because, according to her, she was looking for a professional photographer for her nephew’s first communion.
The first thing we saw at the airport were signs saying there was an outbreak of cholera in the city. Wherever I go it seems this plague follows me, but according to my tropical diseases expert, it does not affect Europeans because we are not malnourished and our gastric juices kill off the cholera bacteria. It is still better, though, not to drink tap water or put ice in drinks.
We went directly to my appointment, which didn’t go as well as I had hoped. Afterwards, to try to calm my nerves, we visited the city.
From the surrounding countryside, I discovered that Trujillo is situated in the middle of a desert covered in fields of asparagus. Most of the crop is exported to Spain. Faced with these fertile dunes I suddenly felt angry and sad. I knew that my meeting with the Prinsa marketing manager meant my visit to Peru was almost at an end. I had got the interview I wanted, and there was no point staying on much longer. Rafa did not know this yet. I was afraid to tell him. Always my same problem: putting off things I don’t like doing. Obviously, I’m not in love with him, but I feel very tenderly towards him.
Night of 21st April 1997
‘Is there anyone there? I’m here! Please, someone get me out of here! I’m choking to death.’
In the midst of the most complete darkness, I was searching for a light to guide me. My whole body was aching, especially my legs. I could not make any sound. My jaw was locked open.
‘Somebody help me!’
I could not move. I had lost all sensation in my limbs. It felt as though I had been buried in a coffin. But I was not dead.
Perhaps this was a kidnapping, and they had put me in a hole like the ETA people do. Why? This could not be real. I have nothing to do with the Basque problem. Anyway, what the fuck was this? I was in Peru, not Spain. I had just met with the marketing director of Prinsa Ltd. So what was going on? Could it be Shining Path?
‘I’m a French citizen, resident in Spain.’
I try to remember: Guzmán is in jail, all the other Shining Path leaders have been caught too, it’s been some time since there have been any other attacks. So it couldn’t be them. It did not make sense. Perhaps it was those kids from the hills who were keeping me hostage. But it couldn’t be that, either. If my memory served me right, we had escaped from there unharmed. So this must be a punishment from God for all the many sins I have committed in my life. But I haven’t ever hurt anyone. All I was after was a bit of pleasure.
